


Salvation

by KarasuNei



Series: The Road goes ever on and on [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dumb Dads, Fluff, M/M, Reunions, What else do you expect from the Edge Lord?, blind!jack, mention of others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarasuNei/pseuds/KarasuNei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel Reyes is a selfish man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> And thus I have fallen into the Reaper76 hell. Here comes my contribution. /sobs
> 
> It's tough being a Blizz junkie.

                Reaper is mildly surprised that no-one came to see him.

 

                Not even to just have a peek through the bars or a pass-by insult. That is…unexpected, considering his current position and his past. But he supposes it might as well, eliminates one minor annoyance on his part.

 

                Ziegler hasn’t been one bit hesitated to accept helping him, mostly because of her overbearing guilt and much to Winston’s distrust. The overgrown ape does have a point, even when Reaper has explained the reasons behind his actions. They can’t trust him, or not just yet, anyway. But, then again, there are new faces here that are quite frankly untrustworthy, too, and it occurs to him just how desperate this new Overwatch is. A pair of assassins brothers cane from a lucrative criminal family, not one but _two_ omnic (granted, Reaper begrudgingly thought, Zenyatta _really_ has a lovely personality), a bunch of so-called vigilantes and fucking McCree of all people. Well, at least the bastard has the gall to give Reaper a shit-eating grin when he realises who the brooding mercenary is, along with Oxton’s obnoxious whooping cheers. Chronal accelerator and whatnot, Reaper is convinced the woman is high on sugar all the time just to achieve her permanent hyperactive antics. But even that doesn’t annoy Reaper as much as how all the old Overwatch agents decide to call him by his old name.

 

                Gabriel Reyes is dead.

 

                When they all sat in that one room with the conference table, dubbed as a semi weaponry lab and a massive industrial fridge in the corner that Tracer seems to visit an awful lot, Reaper never felt more out of place. The faces that he saw are all faces that he knows, but in another life. There is no familiarity in them, even if Ziegler doesn’t look like she has aged a day. The new bunch is curious, of course, and Reaper doesn’t recognise the Chinese woman that is allegedly an older Overwatch agent. When he has finished telling his story, Reaper let the buzzing of the others’ discussion drone out, and searched every face in this pinch of misfits gathered from all over the world. It was stupid of him, but just for one moment, Reaper has expected to see golden hair and cornflower blue eyes staring back at him.

 

                He curses his sentimentality, and his chest grows even colder than it always has been.

 

                Gabriel Reyes is dead, and he buried Jack Morrison with him.

 

                It doesn’t matter how long and how meticulous he has taken the time to gun down every single corrupted agent, how hell-bent he has set on the path of rampaging vengeance. Jack is dead and the major part of that is his fault. Reaper wouldn’t chart his _little project_ as entirely justified and honourable either, not the kind Reinhardt so foolishly believes in after so long, not by a long shot. Reaper barely kept himself together then, mentally _and_ physically. For instant, he would have killed Ziegler should he have crossed paths with her before all of this. And, personally, he has every rightly reason to. Even _she_ knows that. As he brought himself to this forgotten watch point, Reaper was surprised when he didn’t lose it seeing her sunny little face.

 

                Now, sitting in this cell that is purely just for a show of cooperation and barely scraped together grains of trust, Reaper feels jaded. He didn’t respond to the recall because he believes in some kind salvation for humanity or redemption for his past. No, that naiveté has died a long time ago with his name. Reaper is only here to look for his own release, much as Ziegler only agreed to help him to do right what she had wronged.

 

                For a time, Reaper’s overwhelming hatred, coupling with the _perks_ of being a wraith, made him reckless. Or more so than he had already been. A killing, soul-sipping machine that was uncaring of how many bullets he eats or how many knives puncturing his rotting body. It would only be a matter of time before he healed up anyway and Reaper’s sense of self-preservation has never been quite acute. He didn’t realise that there would be a price, not that he would have given that a flying fuck at that point, even if he was told.

 

                Eating souls doesn’t quite heal him as much or as quickly and there is now a certain quality that the souls must meet if he is to be healed at all. The pain comes from his flesh is both searing and constant, and it doesn’t go away even when he is fully healed from his wounds, technically speaking anyway. This pain is bone-deep, from his continuously regenerating and degenerating cells. There isn’t a thing Reaper could do about it from day one, but the pain has long become something he can’t ignore, unlike the faint echo it has once been. It grew with the number of punishments he took on the field, worse and worse year after year.

 

                So he answered the recall for his own selfish reasons.

 

                Overwatch has never had adequate facilities to hold prisoners. Reaper almost laughed at the irony of this. Golden and pristine their image might have been, those who were unfortunate enough to be set upon by the organization were always likely to die. If they were lucky enough to be captured, they would be transported immediately to the UN. It was what it was. Overwatch at the point of its fallout was only a glorified guns-for-hire group at the UN’s dispense. Morrison had been too stubborn to see that and Reyes had been too caught up in his bitterness to care about the shit storm that was going right under his nose.

 

                Reaper can’t exactly say he regrets what had transpired and the fall of Overwatch. Too many agents were compromised. He has to admit he was staggered by the sheer number of them when he began the hunt. And that isn’t even close to the actual total. Being a mercenary hired by Talon from time to time helped Reaper digging up even more shit than he could count. Out of the once massive organization with a plethora of watch points all over the world, only a handful can be trusted and are left with a single dingy base in the middle of nowhere. Reaper, no, _Reyes_ had been played where it hit him the hardest, only one key in the grand scheme of things. Truthfully, it had been one of the reasons that drove him into his rage and bloodlust. But dangerous as he is, Reaper is only one man. He can’t dismantle Talon. There is no foundation of trust to find a crack and break it from within like Overwatch had been. There is no heart amidst the blackness that is darker than Reaper’s smog, no light to snuff out. It is no Overwatch.

 

                And so, here he is. Sitting on the dingy cot because pacing would only grate his already frayed nerves, breathing heavily because his face is bare and he refuses to wear the fucking filtering mask Ziegler gave him. His ammo, weapons, armours, even some of his clothes are left in Winston’s _custody_. Reaper feels naked in his tank top and pants, his arms, though still muscular as if a mocking ghost of his old-self, is ashen grey and blotched in places, where the dark smog lurks just below. But might as well, he told himself again, because his appearance would scare away unwanted attention. Even Tracer with her never-ending enthusiasm would have a hard time staring at his glowering tar pits of eyes that glint blood red from time to time. McCree has certainly tried, as hard-headed as always, but Reaper is unresponsive to the gunslinger and there is that. If he had wanted company, Reaper wouldn’t have come here of all places and certainly wouldn’t have been any of these blithering idiots that he would seek companionship with.

 

                That is to say, he didn’t expect Soldier: 76 to barge through the cell door and punch him in the face.

 

                Spitting out a mouthful of blackened blood and smog, Reaper’s chuckle is dryly sarcastic, “Gotta get in line first, _cabrón_. Ya ain’t the only one here that got me on your hit list.”                     

 

                “You’re damn right I’m not, asshole. But I’ve got the most reasons to.”                     

               

                The voice is gruff, almost like a snarl behind the smooth metallic face plate. It should be unfamiliar, this shithead should be someone Reaper never met. It is true in a sense, because _Reaper_ isn’t the one that knows him. Gabriel Reyes has always prided himself with his sharp mind despite his impatience, and it doesn’t take long for him to piece the handful of words together.                                        

 

                “ _Jack_?” 

 

                He couldn’t fucking believe it. His body kicks in auto drive and within seconds, he is tearing 76’s mask away, the man trying to punch him in the guts but gloved hands only go through a sheen of black mist.

 

                “ _Fuck_ , Jack.” Reaper breathes and he suddenly doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss the man before him or kick the shit outta him. Emotions well up within the supposedly heartless killer, something other than the endless rage and resentment he always feels, emotions that he thought were long gone. Jack Morrison has certainly aged, his golden hair is now snow white and the wrinkles on his face cut painfully into the littering scars, making him look much older than the six years gap should have since they last met. And the way that he angles his head, the squint in his murky eyes… _Fuck_.

 

                Jack has always been braver than he is. Gabriel has always been more reckless, sure, but not as brave as this idiot of a man before him. With his numbing grip on the crooks of Gabriel’s neck, Jack pulls the slightly taller man down and smashes their lips together. Teeth clicked and both taste of blood, but neither care as Gabriel fists the back of Jack’s ridiculous jacket and yanks him impossibly closer, a feral growl at the back of his throat. There is so much anger and bitterness and unsaid words behind this kiss, it _aches_ , but it is so fucking _perfect_ at the same time. Jack has to let go first, gasping for air and hacking out wisps of smog from Gabriel, but the other man frames his face with thick, gun-calloused hands and keeps his face unturned. Cool thumb traces the deep groove of scar that splits Jack’s face in half, black eyes drinking in every feature that he thought he would never see again.

 

                “Should have fuckin’ told me.” Jack’s voice is ragged and harsh, but it can’t hide the facts that he is leaning into Gabriel’s touch and his hands are gripping onto the man’s sides so hard it will leave bruises, “All these years…”

 

                “I saw your grave, Jack.” Gabriel rumbles, his fingers never once stopped smoothing over the marred skin, “We both died.”

 

                Jack’s eyes narrow, almost angrily, but his clouded irises move frantically, to look at Gabriel with his blurred sight. His hands come up and mirror the movements Gabriel is doing, jaws tightening every time his fingers brush across a blotched patch of skin. And, at that very moment, Gabriel doesn’t give a flying shit about the possibility of Ziegler curing him. The two of them are so fucked up on the insides, so much that salvaging Reaper’s body seems plausible compares to that. This doesn’t mean, by any chance, that the shit between then is cleared. They are still both pissed as hell about what the other had done, still hurt and bitter. But they are both _alive_. Barely, but _alive_ and with each other.

 

                Gabriel’s laugh is guttural and forlorn as he hooks his chin over Jack’s shoulder, one hand resting at the small of the soldier’s back and the other playing with soft, white hair. Jack huffs, his face nesting at the crook of the mercenary’s neck and his arms looping around firm waist.

 

                “I never wanted to hurt you, Jack.” The grip around him tightens, but Gabriel continues on, “I won’t apologise. I don’t expect you to either. We did what we had to, to our best interest, and there is no shame in admitting that we were well-played. You and I, we were too… _close_ , too obvious. They know the rift would destroy everything and we both went head-first into it. They wanted us both dead.”

 

                “In some twisted ways, I guess they got it. We were both so stupid.” Jack chuckle is dry, tired and rattled, but the warmth of his breath against Gabriel’s dead skin is _real_.

 

                The silence is comfortable, enough to let the world fade away just for this moment. Gabriel presses absent-minded kisses against Jack’s temple and Jack noses at Gabriel’s skin. This is bliss, something that Gabriel thought he has lost forever, and he will fight tooth and nail to keep this with him for the rest of his wretched existence. It goes without word that Jack feels the same and, somewhere in his charred, black heart, the one spark of love he holds just for the man has never died. Sappy, but it is the truth, and Gabriel is far too weary to deny or bury it any more.

 

                “Back in charge, huh?” Gabriel asks after a while, nuzzling along the shell of Jack’s ear and rumbling in contentment when the soldier shudders with a hitched breath.

 

                “No. Winston is. Figured it’s for the best.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Gabriel understands. Winston is different. Not just _racial_ -wise, but the gorilla is fitting even if he and Gabriel can be at odds. Winston is hopeful just as he is smart, naïve with just the right touch of paranoia. He is the second wind this new Overwatch needs, not some grizzled old veteran that has yet to make peace with his past. Forgiveness will come in time, but Jack needs to heal. And Gabriel will see to it, even if it means forgoing his own salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my tumblr for more Blizz trash: [Nei Karasu](http://neikarasu.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ./go cry in a corner


End file.
